


A Sickly Kind Of Love

by sunsetjiminie



Category: Panic! at the Disco
Genre: Angst, M/M, Mild Suicide Attempt, Pre-Split, Ryans Internal Thoughts, Ryden
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-15
Updated: 2016-11-15
Packaged: 2018-08-31 06:40:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,183
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8568139
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunsetjiminie/pseuds/sunsetjiminie
Summary: Ryden one shot. Written as Ryan's thoughts. Let me know what you think :)





	

**Author's Note:**

> P.S. some grammar errors are intentional to show Ryan's thoughts

Brendon, Brendon, Brendon, what happened? When I wrote and wrote about you, the sun, you weren't supposed to set. This is wrong. Wrong wrong very wrong. We used to hold hands, mine in yours, yours in mine. Yes it was good, but my hand is mine and your hand is yours. when I write and write with my hand on my paper with my pen about the sun, the moon and the stars, it's mine. So, why does everyone think it's yours? Are the bright hollywood lights blurring your vision so much you can't tell what belongs to me and what belongs to you? The sun has set in my eyes, and i don't see it ever rising in my future.

They ask if we're together. Every day, every minute, every hour. I wish I could rewind to a few months back where I would've said no, but teasingly gave your hand a squeeze. Kissed your lips. Kissed you a lot. But I won't let my mind wander because now it's different. Lately, I say no, but I don't squeeze your hand. I keep walking. I hold back tears. I'm a man, no, I won't cry over something this silly. But the love in your eyes used to be aimed at me. Me and only me. Maybe I never showed it but I did . I did love you. More than words could explain. I really did. But I'm not so sure anymore. Every time we touch I feel dread. I feel robbed of my own voice. My feelings. My emotions. I think you have more love in you than before you faded away from me, but it's a sickly kind. It's greedy. It's The kind of love I knew before you. The kind where all you think of and see is parties! Money! Drugs! but who's Ryan? Ryan who? That's me. I'm Ryan Ross! Remember me? That big round light in the night sky? George Ryan Ross! That guy who made you a star? The one with the fucked up life who wrote that number one song about it? The song that you sing each night to thousands of people? No? Didn't think so. I walk home under the lonely moonlight as memories blow away with the breeze.

I still can't believe it. He did it. He kissed that guy. Brendon Urie kissed someone that wasn't me. It hurts. It hurts real bad. I don't think it should but it does. I sit on the curb outside my apartment smoking cigarettes for what seems like hours. 1, 2, 3, 4, boxes become empty in the blink of an eye. Death. Cancer. Pain. That's what the warning label says on these things. The cigarette between my fingers is dying. If Brendon were the cigarette he’d never die out. He’s got an everlasting flame, but it still comes with Death. Cancer. Pain. The cigarette’s embers turn from shades of red and yellow to black as coal, seemingly lifeless.

We touched today. My hand in yours. Your hand in mine. It was really nice, Bren. I forgot what it felt like. I think I like you again, yeah I like you. A lot. When we touched a little 'Ryan love' returned to your big brown eyes. Some of the 'Money!Drugs!Parties!' love drained away. I smile. I smile, Brendon! Big and bright and wide. For the first time in months. This is nice Bren. Do you still like me? I still like you, Ryan. That's good. I think my heart just skipped a beat, but hey, that's alright as long as you like me. You tell me you missed this. Missed what? Us. Us? Yeah. Yeah, Brenny. I missed us too. I don't tell you that out loud, but I swear it's true. You wrap your arms around me. A hug. It feels foreign. I'm cold cold really cold, but now i'm a little bit warmer. Thanks. Why did we fight, again? Did we even fight? I forgot, but that's okay. I don't think it was important. You hug me tighter.

What happened? You're together again? Since when? Yeah. That's all I say. I think Jon asked those questions but I'm too preoccupied to notice. On the couch of our tour bus, you lace our fingers together. I shift closer to you. You have such pretty eyes Bren. Big, brown, and beautiful. I could get lost in them for hours upon hours. You're smiling now. I love when you smile. You're beautiful, did you know that? Now you're blushing and I'm leaning in and we're close, closer. I can count your eyelashes at this distance and -kissing. OH. We're actually kissing. I feel that familiar heat creep into my abdomen and remember how much i missed this. I'm crying. Why are you crying? You.

It's press day. I hate everything about this day (except for Brendon by my side). The cameras and the personal questions and the bright lights. I have a headache from the stress of knowing I have to answer questions upon questions today. Also, I might've swallowed 1 too many pain killers in the bathroom this morning. Nobody needs to know. Today's gonna be great, Bren! That’s a lie, but I say it because i know it'll make you happy.

What's your favorite thing about being on tour? Getting to see and meet the fans. Lie. Ryan, what do you like the most about Miami so far? Everything's great. Also a lie. The interviewer sighs. He wants more from me. Sorry guy, my lips are sealed. I feel your warm hand gently squeeze my thigh under the table to ease my nerves. I don't deserve you, Brendon Urie. You're my everything, my guiding light, my sun. Brendon, what was it like writing A Fever You Can't Sweat Out? I freeze. I stay silent, let you take this one. It's a test. I don't know if you know it is, but you better not christmas tree it. I wait for you to say it's mine. My stories, my pain, my shitty father and my fucking blood sweat and tears. But you don't. It was amazing. Those lyrics were hard to write though, definitely. Brendon Urie. You're my nightmare, the weight holding me down, my biggest mistake.

I cant see, cant think, can't feel. The words of Brendon’s misgiven credit are still ringing in my ears. In the past minute my chair has managed to inch further away from the him. My head is throbbing. I fumble with the pills in my pocket and clench my jaw. This is it. The end. Every inch of happiness leaves my body as I lifelessly answer questions and stare at nothing in particular. The interview has passed as a complete blur and ends. Fucking finally. I shuffle out to the tour bus and lock myself in my bunk. I dump the rest of the painkillers into my hand and swallow them without water. It hurt. His words hurt. A whole lot. Not anymore, though. A single tear runs down my cheek as i drift off into a deep sleep.

When I was little, my dad left the stove on after a long night of drinking and destroying himself sip by sip. I was young. So young that curiosity got the best of me. I put my hand flat on the stove. Warm. Hot. Burning. FIRE. That awful feeling is what I am woken up to this morning. I sit straight up in my bunk and clutch my burning cheek, eyes still closed. What the fuck? I slowly open my heavy eyelids to a fuming Brendon. What the fuck is right, Ross. What the fuck is wrong with you? I look at you with disgust. I’ve had many feelings for you, but never disgust. I clutch my stinging cheek and register that you must’ve slapped me awake. 4:00 P.M. That’s the time. Shit. I've been asleep for nearly a day. The empty bottle of pills sits next to me in my small bunk. We thought you were dead, Ryan. Fucking dead. Why? Usually I would’ve felt pity for hurting you. Not right now. Not any more. You cup my chin and look into my eyes. I grimace. Gag, even. You start to lean in and I shove you away with whatever strength I have left. I rise from my bed and put all my force into kicking you in the gut. You let out a cry of pain. Never fucking speak to me again. Ever. I storm out of the bus and take the next plane home.

Home. I’m home. This is the closest to happiness I’ve had in the past day. I fling the door open and lock it behind me. I immediately head for the bottom right kitchen drawer. Open it. Pull the tab on the left. Unlock the lock. 4856. There it is. Cocaine. Do a line. Do another. Maybe one more. It’s become a routine. Alcohol. I need alcohol. I reach for the full bottle of whiskey. Yeah, that’s what I need. 1 sip, 2 sips, whole bottle. Doesn’t matter. I smash the bottle on the floor when I’m done because I’m Ryan Ross, and I can do fucking any thing. My A Fever You Can’t Sweat Out vinyl sits on my living room table next to a couple dozen empty beer bottles. I know it’s just a vinyl, but right now it looks a lot like Brendon’s face. FUCK YOU. It might look like I’m yelling at a vinyl, but i swear I’m not. It’s Him, right? Definitely. And guess what Brendon? You think you can take what I wrote and steal it? For what, Brendon? Fucking fame? That’s not what this was supposed to be about. This is my shit. MY fucking shit. Did your dad hit you as a kid, Brendon? Did he? Were you abused and beaten when you were just a child looking for love? I just wanted my dad, my fucking dad, Brendon. And that’s MY story. NOT YOURS. So when you sing my words about my life I want to fucking SCREA-. A knock. Someone’s here.

Spencer? I step outside so he doesn’t see in. It’s none of his fucking business, what I do, anyways. Who were you yelling at, Ryan? I wasn’t yelling. I swear on it. I’m fine. Perfectly fine, I promise. Jesus, Ryan. What did you take? What? No! I’m not on any drugs, silly. I’m happy. I force myself to smile extra wide. It’s so good I almost believe it myself. Maybe I should just become an actor and let Brendon have his fun. He reaches for the door. No. No he can’t go in. He can't see... He’s in. He sees what I see. Glass shattered on the floor, remains of coke on the countertop, the shattered Fever vinyl, and the countless empty liquor bottles. My ‘smile’ quickly fades. Yeah, real fucking happy, Ryan.

It's been three days since Spencer burst his way into my mess of an apartment. Oh well. Right now, we're all at this party. While everyone has been enjoying themselves, I've locked myself in the powder room. Nobody seems to notice my absence. Nobody seems to care. Surprising. I've gotten used to being ignored, a mere shadow of Brendon. As I take another hit from this blunt I found on the counter, there's a knock at the door followed by a familiar voice. Open up. Fucking Spencer. I obey, but quickly wish I hadn't.

Brendon stands on the other side of the door looking like he's just seen a ghost. Spencer stands behind him, crossing his arms. I can never get a break around here anymore, can I? I look at Brendon, then at Spencer. What's he doing here, I ask. He opens his mouth to answer, but Brendon cuts him off by saying, what are YOU doing here? Before I can tell him to fuck off, Spencer shoves Brendon through the door and slams the it closed, nearly crushing my fingers in it. What the fuck, Spencer? Neither of you are leaving here until you talk this shit out.

I don't need you in my life. I'm stronger without you. At least that's what I decide as I lean against the wall in the powder room as you throw pointless questions at me. I find it funny, Bren. Real funny how you don't understand why I don't want you anymore. Ryan, are you even listening to me? You take the joint from my lips and step on it. You kill my buzz, you extinguish the flame. I look at you and cock my head to the side. It's a metaphor. I used to get high off music. Writing, singing, preforming, it was amazing. But, see Brendon, you killed my buzz. You extinguished my internal flame. I sigh and stand up, brushing past you on my way out. Say something, Ryan, anything. I slowly turn my head over my shoulder to make eye contact with you. You don't know me anymore.

He doesn't know me anymore.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Let me know what you think and follow my insta @_brendonurie_


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